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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393655">I've run out of my words, my song</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesarebest/pseuds/rosesarebest'>rosesarebest</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Witcher's Way With Words [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Hurt/Comfort, It's About Time, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, and who could blame him, bc the bard is angery, for that damn witcher, so Geralt needs to use his words</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:15:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesarebest/pseuds/rosesarebest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As he reached Roach he was humming some tune he hardly recognised. The mare nickered softly at him as he approached.<br/>“Sorry, girl.” He patted his pockets for a forgotten apple slice but he knew they were empty. Instead he scratched behind her ears, the way she liked it. “I didn’t think—”<br/>A wave of grief caught him off-guard, and he buried his head in her neck, breathing heavily. After a moment he went on. “I guess it would have been goodbye sooner or later. Just didn’t think it would be like this. Take care of the miserable bastard, all right? And I wish you a long and happy retirement, whenever it comes. Goddess knows you deserve a rest.”</p><p>Jaskier dug through the saddlebags for his few belongings, still tangled up with old black shirts he’d mended and socks he’d darned around campfires all over the Continent. Then he hefted his pack and lute onto his shoulder and walked away humming a merry tune.</p><p>Or: Jaskier's story of what happened after *that* mountain scene.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Witcher's Way With Words [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>403</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I haven't written in forever but I came across the Witcher and his bard and whoo boy, I am in deep. I've read the short stories and a fuck-ton of fic and watched the Netflix series, but haven't played the games. This is my first dip into a new fandom and I hope you enjoy.<br/>Jaskier-centric and lots of angst but don't worry, comfort always comes, eventually.</p><p>Title from The Rockrose and the Thistle by The Amazing Devil.</p><p>when your seams have come unknitted<br/>and you cry out to the sky<br/>I've run out of my words, my song<br/>just let me die, me die</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier walks down the mountain and makes a new life in Oxenfurt. It's hard to deal with the pain when you can't speak its name. But he's fine. Really.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>Songs had got him into this mess, and songs would get him out again, Jaskier decided. He’d make his way down the mountain path in a fog of melody. </p><p> </p><p>As he reached Roach he was humming some tune he hardly recognised. The mare nickered softly at him as he approached.</p><p>“Sorry, girl.” He patted his pockets for a forgotten apple slice but he knew they were empty. Instead he scratched behind her ears, the way she liked it. “I didn’t think—”</p><p>A wave of grief caught him off-guard, and he buried his head in her neck, breathing heavily. After a moment he went on. “I guess it would have been goodbye sooner or later. Just didn’t think it would be like this. Take care of the miserable bastard, all right? And I wish you a long and happy retirement, whenever it comes. Goddess knows you deserve a rest.”</p><p>Jaskier dug through the saddlebags for his few belongings, still tangled up with old black shirts he’d mended and socks he’d darned around campfires all over the Continent. Then he hefted his pack and lute onto his shoulder and walked away humming a merry tune.</p><p>He took nothing and left nothing behind, unless he counted the fragments of a foolish, shattered heart still rattling around a hollow chest. He wasn’t crying. <em>He wasn’t.</em> He huddled close to a tiny glowing fire, his stomach gripped by hunger once the last of the jerky was gone. He wanted no reminders of the time before. Hunger was welcome. It was emptiness and lack, an appetite that could not be appeased, a hole unfilled and unnamed. It was years crumbled to dust in his hands and blown away on a cold wind, dandelion wishes fated never to come true.</p><p>By the time Jaskier reached the inn at the foot of the mountain he had a plan. He straightened his shoulders, flashed a bright smile, and bartered a place in a merchant’s wagon going south in exchange for strong arms and entertainment. Contrary to what some people thought he was actually quite strong, thank you very much. No weakling could carry a heavy lute and keep pace with a horse day after day.</p><p>As the caravan of travellers made its way along the main roads, he pondered on how different it was to travel this way. These people welcomed his tales and songs, so he sang around the fire each night and drank as much ale as he could stomach in hope that sleep would find him quickly. Even so he was awake long before dawn, surrounded by the noises from mules and chickens and people, but alone curled around his lute on his thin bedroll. He stared at the grey pre-dawn sky and put away the memories of back roads and quiet forest camps with Roach snorting nearby. Instead he rinsed the sour taste of last night’s beer from his mouth before helping with animals and children, fetching water and firewood, and keeping busy.</p><p>He had to admit though, riding beat walking everywhere. He had less time to brood, which was a very good thing, and if he caught himself brooding he sang. When people asked for songs about the White Wolf his breath caught on jagged fragments of bloodied heart muscle and razor-edged words, words that were too painful to examine even as they tried to pry their way into his throat and cut him open from the inside. He swallowed. Smiled. Sang about basilisks and wyverns. Refused to remember the wounds he’d stitched and the muscles he’d massaged. Forgot the name and the piercing golden stare of their owner. The Witcher was a mythical creature of his own partial invention, nothing more. He washed the blood and pain down with more ale, and clutched his lute to his chest like a shield.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier reached Oxenfurt on a bright spring morning. The merchant’s plump wife giggled and blushed when he dismounted the wagon and kissed her hand.</p><p>“It was my deepest pleasure to have the honour of your company.”</p><p>Behind her the merchant scoffed. “Fine words master bard, but still. You’ve been of some help I’ll admit.” He eyed the dusty red doublet as Jaskier brushed himself down. “Didn’t think you’d be the type for hard work.”</p><p>“Ah, you’d not be the first to judge the book by its cover.” Jaskier swept a courtly bow. “Farewell my good fellow. I am forever in your debt, and my feet thank you for sparing them a long and painful walk.”</p><p>He made his way along narrow, bustling streets. His senses were hit with a veritable assault; horse manure and fresh bread, neighing and shouts, uneven cobbles underfoot, hard shoves from people shouldering past impatiently, flies buzzing round unidentified spills in the alleys. He’d been at home here, once upon a time, but now all he could think of was blessed peace and a space of his own. He gripped his bags tighter and turned towards the Academy. A new chapter, he told himself.</p><p>“Good morning kind sir. Would you be so kind as to inform Vice Chancellor Aldenyll that Professor Pankratz has returned from his travels?”</p><p>“Professor? A likely tale.”</p><p>Jaskier didn’t know whether to be glad the porter at the front gate hadn’t turned him away or indignant that he didn’t recognise him. Instead he pasted on a winning smile, as though he were dressed in the finest silk damask rather than a decidedly travelworn outfit that he would most certainly discard at the first opportunity.</p><p>“But true, I assure you.”</p><p>The porter looked him up and down. “I’m sure the Vice Chancellor has better things to do with his time than entertain a ruffian like you.”</p><p>“Ah, please don’t be fooled by my rather rustic appearance.” He smiled ruefully. “The road does not always offer every convenience, but the adventures make up for the poor comforts, indeed they do.” At the unimpressed silence, Jaskier went on. “I’ll wait on your indulgence, but Professor Emeritus Aldenyll does not like his friends to be kept waiting, as I’m sure you know.” He sank to the ground, pulled out his notebook and quill, and started humming.</p><p>The porter spoke with someone inside the gatehouse and turned back. “I’m watching you.”</p><p>“But of course,” Jaskier replied easily. “Such a wonderful morning for composing. Take all the time you need.”</p><p>A few minutes later Jaskier heard raised voices. He packed away his things and stood up with a groan, rubbing his aching knees. The years were all right there in his joints even if he liked to ignore them. A warm scented bath to ease stiffness and cleanse his grimy skin would be wonderful. A chair to sit and drink a glass of Est Est would be absolute heaven, if only this dolt of a porter would let him in.</p><p>“What do you mean sitting outside? How long? Do you know—well clearly you don’t, but I suppose it has been a while. Open the godsdamned gate!”</p><p>“Sorry, right away, Vice Chancellor.” The porter pulled the gate open to reveal a well-nourished man with a shock of white hair wearing a grey doublet and dark blue academic gown.</p><p>“Julian! So good to see you again my friend. How long has it been, months, years? Come in, come in. You’re quite the stranger to us and that is most regrettable.”</p><p>Jaskier nodded at the porter and shook the man’s hand. “Greetings, Malec. Too long, but then again just long enough to yearn for the delights of civilisation.”</p><p>“Come to my chambers, I must hear all.”</p><p>Jaskier laughed. “That could take more than a little time, but I shall of course do my best to tell the tales of my journeys.”</p><p>“I tell you, once word gets out that you’re back you’ll have a ready audience wherever you go. Dare I hope that you might be available for a few lectures?”</p><p>“I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, once I’ve rested up a little.”</p><p>“Marvellous! The Continent’s loss is our gain.”</p><p>They walked together along the shaded cloister. Jaskier kept his sunny smile, but his heart was a cold, dark cave of regret.</p><p> </p><p>Professor Aldenyll was overjoyed to hear that Jaskier planned to stay long-term. Jaskier returned to his usual rooms, finding them dusty but otherwise little changed. He stripped out of his shabby clothing and sank into a blissfully hot bath. He scrubbed his skin and hair with rose scented soap and soaked until the water grew cold. Then he collapsed face down on the bed.</p><p>Despite soft sheets and not one but two feather pillows, he slept fitfully and woke after a few hours, shivering. He couldn’t get comfortable, the bed was too soft, too high off the ground. Too empty. Well, he would have to adjust because that was how it was going to be from now on.</p><p>Aldenyll had said he could take as much time as he needed. He emptied his bags, setting his quills and notebooks on the desk and precious lute on a chair. An overhaul by his favourite luthier was long overdue. Such skills were not to be found in backwater towns away from main routes. Clothes and boots went into a pile for laundry and mending; although some couldn’t be saved, replacements would have to wait until he replenished his coin.</p><p>His heart contracted painfully at the sight of the doublet that had witnessed the death of his hopes and dreams. Red reminded him of spilled blood, and abruptly he tore the doublet that he’d paid so much for into strips and threw them into the fire. It seemed a fitting end to that phase of his life, a pyre for the ridiculous, primped finery of a foolish dandy who was ill-fitted to the life he chose. It was inevitable that it would all end in tears.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier spent a week in hiding. He had food and wine brought to his door and coaxed his stomach to accept full portions. He bathed away the cold sweat left by restless sleep filled with nightmare monsters with too many legs and teeth and eyes. Sometimes he dreamed of lying in the snow naked and shivering with twin suns scorching his skin, merciless and cruel. Other times he slipped off a narrow mountain path and fell endlessly, waking with a scream and blood thundering in his ears. All he could do was sing and hum quietly, trying to soothe tattered nerves and rebuild a shattered heart.</p><p>After two weeks he pulled on his darkest doublet, and returned to teaching.</p><p>***</p><p>Spring gave way to summer. Jaskier surrounded himself with songs. He taught classes in lyrical poetry and composition, and discussed the cultural importance of mythmaking with eager students. His lectures were always full. He answered questions about his songs and the creatures in them. He even talked about witchers as elements of both ancient and contemporary legend.</p><p>“Professor, didn’t you travel as the bard Jaskier with Geralt of Rivia for a while?”</p><p>He blinked, and twisted his mouth into a smile.</p><p>“Indeed I did. And what a fascinating if at times rather perilous experience, allowing me to see at first hand how we construct stories. As storytellers we pick and choose what to include, minimising certain aspects and embroidering others until we can no longer see where truth ends and myth begins. Because everyone needs a story that makes sense, that is a comfort of sorts, even if it is far from objective reality.”</p><p>Alleana frowned. “But your stories are real, aren’t they?”</p><p>Thirty pairs of eyes watched him. He felt flayed open by their curious gazes, trapped by their expectations. He wanted to run. But Alleana was one of his best students and he couldn’t bear to scour away her youthful enthusiasm with the bitter retorts that bubbled just beneath his skin. Instead he dug into his performer’s persona, light and happy.</p><p>“At heart, yes of course. There’s a kernel of truth in every fairy tale.”</p><p> </p><p>That night he sat in a corner of the Three Barrels sipping ale. When the young bard strummed the first notes of Toss A Coin on her lyre, bile rose in his throat and nausea flooded his stomach. Leaving his cup half-finished, he fled the tavern to recite poetry aloud through a long and sleepless night.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier’s teaching job paid reasonably well. He published an acclaimed history of folklore and a collection of his own poems, whose combined royalties made a modest second income. He had no need of a horse in the city. Plain cotton shirts and wool doublets in sober shades were much less expensive than gaudy silks, though he kept elegant outfits in gold and silver blue for his occasional outings at court. People wanted to hear him play, and from time to time he indulged royalty and nobles who wanted to boast of having the master bard sing his marvellous songs at their parties. For the first time in his life he had ample coin but little desire to spend it. His one indulgence was richly scented oils of rose and camellia to replace the chamomile oil he’d thrown out, along with the dried yellow flowers he found crumpled at the bottom of his travel bag.</p><p>Three nights after running away from his own song – and how pathetic was that – he found himself drinking good but overpriced wine at the bar of the Velvet Rose before choosing the least experienced girl to take upstairs. He lavished her with sweet words and gentle touches, uncaring of his own pleasure as long as she consented to lay in his arms afterwards and pet his hair until their time was up. Afterwards he slipped away from her starry-eyed look, leaving with a smile and a heavy heart for his silent, empty bed.  He returned every few weeks when his longing for touch grew too much to bear, always taking a different girl. His reputation as a generous lover remained intact, but over time the delights of the flesh became an itch to scratch, not a reason to live.</p><p>There was no more dallying with married people. He told himself that he couldn’t afford scandal when there was no chance of running out of town overnight. Oxenfurt, that glittering world of possibility for his teenage self, was actually rather small. Jaskier had matured. He was a grown man and far from useless, thank you very much. He had his songs to fill the hole in his chest and he needed no-one.</p><p>***</p><p>Summer cooled towards autumn, and leaves turned to gold. It was time to finalise his curriculum for the next intake of students. Perhaps he’d even take up his lute again and play in the better city taverns instead of just for himself. More coin meant more choices <strike>like buying a cottage by the coast</strike> and he missed performing for enthusiastic crowds rather than polite nobility. And the long winter nights needed filling somehow.</p><p>A half-forgotten scent tugged at his memory as he sat pondering his future over a goblet of wine in the Silver Bell. Before he could place it, he heard the voice he dreaded.</p><p>“Bard.”</p><p>“Witch.”</p><p>“Fancy meeting you here.”</p><p>He looked up at violet eyes and a mocking smile. “Yennefer. The very antithesis of a pleasure, since I’m here to drink alone.”</p><p>“Now now, no need to be rude.” She slid into the seat opposite and slipped her fur cloak off her shoulders, revealing a black velvet dress with a lace bodice that seemed to display and then conceal her cleavage with each glance. The effect was eye-catching but Jaskier was in no mood for her dramatics. His evening was sadly quite spoiled; still, with luck he might escape relatively unscathed.</p><p>“Don’t you have wretched minions to bespell?”</p><p>“Don’t you have tawdry ditties to strum?” She made a show of looking around. “You appear to have misplaced your instrument. There are coins to be tossed I’m sure.”</p><p>“I’m in no need of coin or indeed your company.” He sipped his wine. She could get her own drink.</p><p>“You look different.”</p><p>“Never better, I assure you.”</p><p>“That grey doublet lacks your customary garish taste, and I’ve never seen you look so…  hirsute.” She tilted her head as if considering. Red lips twitched. “The beard ages you, you know.”</p><p>He resisted the urge to tuck a wayward curl behind his ear. Though still thick and glossy thanks to the oils he used, his hair wasn’t yet long enough to tie back. He had already purchased a length of dark blue velvet ribbon in anticipation of that glorious day.</p><p>“I’ve decided to embrace the crow’s feet,” he said airily, gesturing to barely visible wrinkles. “More fitting for a professor.”</p><p>Yennefer scoffed. “You don’t look a day over, what, forty-five?”</p><p>He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a reply and besides, his skin care regime was a complete success, if the number of people flirting with him was any indication. The other professors were both envious of his enduring good looks, and reluctantly respectful of his refusal to use them to get students into bed. That was past Jaskier’s style.</p><p>“Why don’t you get back to sacrificing virgins for your eternal youth? If you can find any, that is. Virtue remains a rare and precious commodity in these troubled times. You might have to settle for having your exterior match the interior.” He finished his wine and glared at her.</p><p>“Don’t leave yet, this is such fun.” She waved a hand and his goblet refilled. “Where’s your pet wolf?”</p><p>Jaskier grit his teeth. “I haven’t the faintest interest in the witcher’s whereabouts. As you can see there are no monsters here for him to take down. Well, there weren’t.”</p><p>She leaned forward with a sly smile. “Not together then? How deliciously unexpected. A falling out between friends, or something more?”</p><p>His heart pulsed with rage at the word <em>friends</em>. “I’m certain you’re better acquainted with the friendship of a witcher than I. Now if you’ll excuse me—”</p><p>“Wait.” She put a hand on his arm. Around them the sounds of the tavern vanished. He froze, halfway out of his seat.</p><p>“Release me, Yennefer.” His legs shook but there was no escape. He sat down again and scowled at her steady gaze. “What the fuck is this.”</p><p>“What did he do – ah. You’re hurt.”</p><p>He stared at her, trapped inside the bubble of the silencing spell with her pity twisting knives in his gut.  “How dare you. Get out of my head.”</p><p>Yennefer pursed her lips. “He’s an emotionally stunted fool. But still you care for him.”</p><p>No no <em>no.</em> Jaskier trembled in cold fury. He had just started to accept life with a yawning chasm at its centre that dare not speak its name. He’d been getting better and now she was here and his skin was too tight and the air was too thick with the scent of lilacs and fuck, he couldn’t breathe. A wounded, cornered animal, he roared his pain in words that dripped not honey but poison.</p><p>“The nerve, the sheer audacity of you magical misanthropes. You all claim to be above petty human squabbles but you just can’t help interfering, getting your fingers dirty and destroying people for sport.” He jabbed a finger at the sorceress. “And now you’re here uninvited, violating my privacy and taking whatever you please. Do you know how it feels to be powerless, how it feels to have someone come into your house and steal your choice from you?”</p><p>Across from him Yennefer went very still. Her gauzy lace bodice turned black and impenetrable but Jaskier did not falter. He let his rage explode.</p><p>“You could do some good in the world but no, all you mages ever do is wield power over us puny little humans to make yourselves feel big. Go back to fucking your fucking witcher and live happily ever after. I’m done with the pair of you.”</p><p>“Jaskier. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Her purple eyes really were remarkable, a detached part of his brain whispered. An excellent match for gold, but he would not go there. He would not.</p><p>“It’s Professor Pankratz and I wish to leave now.” Another part of his brain was rather impressed at his icy words. Such haughty disdain. Bravo, Julian.</p><p>“I haven’t seen him since the mountain.”</p><p>Her tone was off key and he didn’t care why. “Release me, witch.”</p><p>Silence stretched between them. He started singing quietly, dredging the epic <em>Spherica Celestiana</em> from deep in his memory. Many years ago, he’d learned to recite the entire two hundred stanzas. Back then he thought that poetry was a romantic calling, long before life had beaten the romance out of him and revealed itself as nothing more than a cosmic joke with his dismissal on a cold mountain top as the devastating punchline.</p><p>He couldn’t remember the last time he felt truly warm and safe. Safe was wood smoke and roasted rabbit and horse snuffles and a whetstone on steel and a hole in his chest that he dared not look at, lest it swallow him whole.</p><p>There was a pop and the sounds of the tavern resumed around him, but he kept singing with his eyes fixed on the worn table until Yennefer rose with a sigh and left in a swish of black without another word. He walked back to the university and all he had was his song to keep him company. That and his anger, because anybody who dared approach him would become intimately acquainted with the dagger in his boot. Fury still simmered beneath his skin, denied its real target but eager to wound anything within reach. Perhaps if he could stab and slash at flesh, revel in blood welling from wounds, find some way to relieve the misery of words he could not speak – perhaps then he could rest.</p><p>Jaskier sang all night until he was hoarse and his throat closed up, clogged with the silent screams of a cursed memory. As dawn streaked the sky with grey, he fell asleep exhausted to the sound of rain pattering on the windows.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Poor bard. He deserved better.<br/>Comments and kudos welcome!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt finds some words.<br/>Jaskier chooses his words.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Songs were Jaskier's only solace.</p><p>He silenced his thoughts and patched his wounds and salved his aching heart with harmony, rhyme and meter. He remained in his bed for three days, leaving only to piss and find more drink, until he’d emptied even the oldest wine bottles and his skin itched from dried sweat and tears. It was fortunate indeed that classes had not yet begun.</p><p>He considered going back to the Velvet Rose for a kind word and someone to wash the regret from his body, but decided that he couldn’t impose his melancholy on a girl, even if she were being paid. Instead he changed his sheets, slunk out to the bath room and performed his own cleansing. With clean hair and trimmed beard, dressed in a properly fastened dove grey doublet, he felt at least half-way human again.</p><p>Jaskier was no stranger to re-invention. He'd escaped the prison of nobility to travel the Continent, leaving Julian behind on his way to becoming Jaskier, renowned master bard and (in)famous lover. Performing came naturally to him, with its promise of attention and excitement in return for sharing the words that dripped from his mouth and leaked through his skin day and night. Professor Pankratz was simply another skin he wore, tailoring it to his liking like any other costume. But however he trimmed and tucked, this skin never quite fit; stretched thin here, gaping there. He wouldn’t let himself examine too closely where it fell short, for what was the point?</p><p>He tried to keep his words under wraps even as they beat at their confinement and kept him awake at nights, furious birds trying to squeeze through the barred windows of his mouth and eyes and fly free.</p><p>***</p><p>“The so-called muse is a fickle mirage built of smoke and half-formed wishes,” he said to his friend Priscilla one evening in the Three Barrels. He much preferred the Silver Bell, but after his run in with Yennefer couldn’t bring himself to return there.</p><p>“In any case I need write no more songs or poetry. I have already given the world enough.” He raised a mug. “I've no more tales to spin of supposed heroics.” His smile was practised, filled with sharp teeth.</p><p>Priscilla sipped mead and regarded him with a tilted head that reminded him of someone.</p><p>“The muse is real, Jaskier. Sometimes we lose sight of our muse, or we turn away for one reason or another, but it’s only a matter of time before we reconnect.”</p><p>He swirled wine and sniffed the bouquet. “A fine vintage. I should buy another case and then we can spend many an evening in my rooms or yours, drinking and swapping tales. What do you say? I’d wager you can tell a great many stories of—”</p><p>“Jaski, stop. There’s no bard alive or dead who’s seen the things you have, visited the places you’ve been, and alongside a witcher? No, don’t interrupt me. I’d never pry into your private matters but I’ve never seen you like this.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Quiet. Closed off. Living the life of a man whose life holds no future beyond more of the same.”</p><p>Jaskier stared at the table. “You talk as if there’s no merit in a settled life.”</p><p>“Well of course there is, for some people. But you’re not some people. You’re meant for broader horizons, bigger adventures.” She gestured around, almost spilling her mead. “More.”</p><p>He looked up at her earnest expression. She was wrong.</p><p>“I thought so too, once. I am grateful for the wonders I have seen, of course. But I am first and foremost a weaver of fables and fairy tales, and the biggest myth was the one I wove for myself.” He barely mustered another smile. “It was fine while it lasted. Now tell me about Laszlo, did he ever repay that gambling debt? Because one thing is certain, his card playing skills are no better than they were when we were students. Did I ever tell you about the time that I won my pick of a horse from his father’s stables?”</p><p>She sighed but let him steer the conversation away, and he was never more grateful for her friendship.</p><p> </p><p>Months passed. Jaskier enjoyed teaching, for the most part. His classes were full, which meant that he could expect to have at least a few talented students who might make a good living as bards one day. Malec Aldenyll invited him to dine every fortnight, to hear his tales of monster hunting and flatter him into staying with the university rather than take a court appointment. There was a time when Jaskier’s ego would have preened like a strutting peacock at all the invitations, but he found it easy to decline with a charming smile and a vague promise. The same went for the propositions he still seemed to attract despite his lack of interest in companionship. Trouble tried to find him, but he danced away from its grasp into the shadows.</p><p>***</p><p>Another visitor was announced at his door. He sighed and welcomed them inside rooms that were at least tolerably tidy. The discussion went on longer than he liked but he remained courteous, after all there was no sense in burning bridges. He wasn’t getting any younger and a court position would offer comfort and coin, applause and security. He could make the best of his remaining years.</p><p>“Of course his Grace’s most generous offer will be at the very forefront of my mind if circumstances change, but I confess myself entirely consumed with the vital job of passing on knowledge to the generation of bards to come after me.”</p><p>“My Lord Nelcik holds you and your skills in the very highest esteem, Master Bard. He asks that you reconsider.”</p><p>“His Grace is too kind and I shall never forget the opportunity he has seen fit to extend to me. For now, I send my humblest and entirely inadequate apologies. I have given my word to the Vice Chancellor and it would not do to renege on my commitments.”</p><p>“Understood. I will convey your answer to my lord, and hope to see you again.” The emissary bowed deeply and left.</p><p>Jaskier slumped in his seat. The air thickened until he could hardly draw a breath. He didn’t want to stay in this room and this life. He didn’t want to go out on the road alone and risk his carefully constructed peace of mind. He couldn’t speak the truth of what he truly wanted, not even in the privacy of his rooms and his own head. Instead, he wrapped his ears in songs. And the days went by, and winter was promised in the frosts and shortening days.</p><p>The strain showed in subtle details that others might miss, but were obvious to Jaskier. His cheekbones thinned, and tying his hair back only accentuated their prominence. His trousers flapped around waist and legs grown softer than in his wandering days. He found the cold days and colder nights required more layers, so he invested in a fur lined cloak and more blankets for a solitary bed no longer warmed by a succession of partners.</p><p> </p><p>His entire existence was a barely satisfying performance, and he longed for its end. But the only monsters to threaten his life came in his dreams. So when he caught a glimpse of black in the back of the lecture hall one day, Jaskier assumed it was just another trick of the mind caused by insomnia and too much cheese before bed. He scanned the room as the students filed out but saw nothing.</p><p>The next day, he was searching his bag for a forgotten manuscript when the whispers began. Could they not keep it to themselves for one minute? He debated ignoring it but after yet another night of tossing and turning his patience was worn thin. He snapped upright and the breath left his lungs at the sight of a tall, broad man in black with his white hair tied back. The students shuffled forwards, leaving several seats empty around him. The man sat silent near the door, and his yellow eyes never left Jaskier.</p><p>Jaskier blinked once, twice. He twisted his mouth into something approximating a smile.</p><p>“Well. Perhaps our discussion of metaphor can wait, for we have a surprise visitor. May I introduce none other than the famed Geralt of Rivia.”</p><p>Geralt gave no attention to the fluttering students mumbling their greetings. He remained still and focused, every inch the predator.</p><p>Jaskier’s empty stomach roiled. The subject of too many dreams and nightmares sat in front of him, living and breathing if you please, as though nothing could be more commonplace than to appear uninvited in the last place Jaskier expected.</p><p>“Professor?”</p><p>Alleana was always the boldest. He liked her immensely.</p><p>“It would be an honour to speak with the master witcher, if it pleases you both. I have many questions.”</p><p>Other students nodded, regarding the man with admiration and open interest.</p><p>“He is a man of very few words.” Jaskier paused. He could not meet that gaze yet. “Perhaps another time, I’m certain he has business to attend. I will see you all tomorrow at nine bells, with your latest poetry compositions.”</p><p>The students grumbled but filed out, acknowledging the witcher with dipped heads and a shy curtsey from Alleana.</p><p>Jaskier gathered his papers and books together, keeping his eyes down. This couldn’t be real. <em>It wasn’t fair.</em> He lifted his chin and strode towards the door.</p><p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>His traitorous heart sang at the low rumble of his name until anger stirred in its wake.</p><p>“I am Professor Pankratz now.”</p><p>“Not to me.”</p><p>“I have classes so if you’ll excuse me—”</p><p>“I came to see you.”</p><p>Jaskier spread his arms in a mocking bow. “And you have. Now leave me alone.”</p><p>“No, I want to – can we talk in private?”</p><p>“We have nothing to talk about. I took myself out of your life, as you asked, and now you waltz into mine without so much as a by your leave.”</p><p>The man remained seated but his unblinking gaze pinned Jaskier in place. “Please.”</p><p>Looking down at that impassive face wasn’t enough for Jaskier. He never had enough power, enough aggression, enough dominance. He was sick of always feeling lesser.</p><p>“Did that hurt?” he sneered. “Fuck off, witcher.” He swept past and out without looking back.</p><p> </p><p>In the peace of his room with the door locked, he bit his lip until the copper tang of blood filled his mouth instead of a name. He fell asleep singing the same verse over and over.</p><p> </p><p>During the following days he heard whispers around the academy. The witcher was in the library some said, others swore he walked the cloisters wearing two swords. One person claimed he’d brought a bleeding wyvern’s head to the front gate, which was clearly ridiculous because anyone with even the smallest amount of creature lore knew wyverns lived in the mountains miles away. Jaskier deflected all the questions from his students with an ease borne of a lifetime of prattling and hiding in plain sight. No doubt the witcher would leave after a couple of days and let him live out his miserable life in peace, because the fabled White Wolf despised cities. Too much noise and smells and humanity. Not that it was his business any more.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier felt quite safe going to the library because no monster hunter ever showed the slightest inclination towards academic study, being men of action. He was unprepared for the arresting sight of the witcher sitting in a corner with a good view of the door as was his habit, silver head bent over a dusty old tome. So unprepared that when the golden eyes met his he was still frozen in the doorway, much to the annoyance of the person behind him.</p><p>“Kindly proceed or else step aside, Professor.”</p><p>“My apologies, of course.” He was forced to move further inside. Horror and fascination warred in his head, and as the witcher stood he turned and bolted back to his rooms.</p><p> </p><p>Safe at last, he slammed the door and leaned against it, letting the books slip to the floor.</p><p>Why? Months of tiptoeing around the cavern in his heart. Nights spent crying, drinking, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling, singing until words lost all meaning. Why could he not just leave him alone?</p><p>
  <em>I came to see you.</em>
</p><p>But there was no point. He stamped on the tiny seed of hope blooming in his foolish heart. He was done laying himself bare for an uncaring world.</p><p>Of course his peace couldn’t last. He startled from gazing at the fire at the sound of three knocks on his door.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Jaskier. May I see you.” It didn’t sound like a question.</p><p>Jaskier wondered whether the witcher would break down the door if he said nothing. He wasn’t certain what he wanted and he hated himself for even considering saying yes. His reply was quiet, but he knew it would be heard.</p><p>“What would be the point? It’s better this way. Go seek your destiny.”</p><p>“It is not—I am not better.” Each word seemed torn out with an effort.</p><p>Jaskier chewed his lip. He took a breath. “You should go.”</p><p>“I will not.”</p><p>Hadn’t he dreamed of sincere apologies tearfully accepted, and returning to a life still shared but as equals? Hadn’t he reconciled himself to knowing that would never happen?</p><p>He poked at the fire and added a log. Then he unlocked the door and stood by the window, letting the fading light of dusk cast him in shadow.</p><p>The door opened and closed softly.</p><p>“Speak.”</p><p>The wood crackled in the hearth. It would soon be time to light the candles. All Jaskier could feel was the thudding in his chest and the gentle tickle of hair on his neck. He’d always filled the silences and made enough conversation for both of them but this time would be different. He waited.</p><p>Floorboards creaked and Geralt’s voice came from near the fire. “Sit with me.”</p><p>Jaskier turned from the window to see Geralt sitting on the hearthrug. His eyes glowed gold in the firelight, above sharp cheekbones and resolute lips. By Melitele, the man was beautiful.</p><p>He shrugged. “It’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever done.”</p><p>He settled comfortably with crossed legs and forced his hands to relax in his lap. Though his knees were getting no younger, exercises learned from a rather <em>flexible</em> acquaintance helped him stay limber. He also had his recent sword training to thank for maintaining his ease of movement. He hated fighting but liked his insides staying, well, inside. And he might decide to travel alone again and would have to defend himself. He might. One day.</p><p>“I looked for you.” The tone was neutral. “Followed your scent until it mixed with too many others past the inn and then I lost it.” Geralt closed his eyes and breathed in, nostrils flaring.</p><p>“I bartered a wagon ride.” Jaskier stared at the flames and swallowed the rest of his words.</p><p>“I make no excuses. I was angry. Witchers are not built…we are taught not to become attached. To walk the Path alone.”</p><p>“You weren’t alone though, were you? I was there. I walked while you rode, I sang for coin until I was hoarse, I dragged you from swamps and patched your wounds and never left your side. And then on that mountainside, you tossed me away like a soiled rag.”</p><p>Jaskier’s voice trembled but he kept his breathing even. A few minutes and this bullshit would be over, and they could both get on with their pathetic lives.</p><p>A tiny crease appeared on Geralt’s brow. Jaskier recognised the struggle. Good. Let him struggle, let him find his own words. Jaskier deserved that much and he refused to help.</p><p>“Jaskier. I am sorry.” The words scraped like rocks over gravel.</p><p>“For what?” He couldn’t keep the edge from his voice.</p><p>“For my harsh words then and the times before. For causing you pain. For leaving you to get down that mountain alone while I raged at Destiny and everyone else.”</p><p>“You made your own choices.”</p><p>Geralt looked down then. “You’re right.”</p><p>Jaskier took in his black leather jerkin and trousers, well-worn boots, scarred hands drawn in tight fists. Yes, Geralt was dragging every word from some unknown place deep inside. Jaskier wanted all of them. He wanted to feast on every crumb of his discomfort and still Geralt would know only a morsel of Jaskier’s pain.</p><p>“I gave you twenty-odd years, my best fucking years, and it wasn’t enough. I don’t have forever to live like you magical arseholes, I’m just a man.”</p><p>By the Goddess, he itched to kick and beat Geralt until he was cut open and bleeding, and it was only Jaskier’s need to protect his hands that held him back. Even then, the bastard would just heal and walk away. It would be another waste of time and effort that hurt Jaskier more. He roared with frustration and Geralt opened his eyes but did not flinch.</p><p>Jaskier shouted, angry and raw. “What more do you want from me?”</p><p>“I want nothing. I came to offer you my apology. It would not have surprised me if you sent me away. I don’t deserve forgiveness.”</p><p>Jaskier got to his feet, rubbing his knees. “You don’t.”</p><p>Geralt rose smoothly to his knees, bowed his head and spoke. “Then say the word, and I will leave.”</p><p>Jaskier blinked. Even in his dreams, Geralt was never vulnerable like this – no swords, no armour, neck bared.</p><p> </p><p>He recalled the day in Posada that a supposedly heartless predator tried to defend a stranger while offering up his own life – the very moment their paths joined.</p><p> </p><p>The name he had refused – tried to forget, as if that were even possible – the name he had been incapable of speaking without choking – the name of his heartbreak and joy – came to his lips again, easier than breathing.</p><p>“Geralt. You don’t deserve forgiveness, that’s not how it works. I forgive you, Geralt. I came to you, stayed with you, and forgive you because I choose to do so.”</p><p>Jaskier’s voice broke. He looked down at the face he’d loved for years, and marvelled at the hope he saw there. Then Geralt rose to his feet with more grace than any large man should have by rights. They looked at each other, and looked, until a tentative finger reached out to brush away the tears clinging to Jaskier’s cheeks. His skin tingled in its wake.</p><p>“Well?” He wanted to laugh, drunk on relief and joy.</p><p>Geralt tilted his head. “Smell of woodsmoke, a fire in the dark, just you and me. Almost like old times.”</p><p>“You’ll make a poet yet Geralt, just you wait.”</p><p>His lips turned up a fraction. “One bard is more than enough.”</p><p>Before Jaskier could form an indignant retort, he was gathered up into an embrace. All the air left his lungs in a rush and he melted into strong arms, breathing in the scents of leather and soap and horse. He rested his head on a firm shoulder and let his tears flow.</p><p>“I missed you.” He wanted to burrow into Geralt’s neck and never leave.</p><p>“Being alone wasn’t better.” Soft words vibrated against Jaskier’s chest. “I couldn’t find your scent anywhere. And now you don’t smell how I remember.”</p><p>Jaskier swallowed a sob. “No chamomile. I couldn’t bear it.” He didn’t want to move but dusk had given way to dark and he needed a drink. “I know you can see in this deepening gloom, but my merely human night vision is hardly adequate.” He unwound his arms and tried to step back, but Geralt seemed unwilling to let go. Large warm hands caught Jaskier’s wrists.</p><p>“Please,” Geralt whispered. “Don’t leave.”</p><p>Jaskier could (in theory) refuse him because a few words, even though they were really good words, didn’t fix all the damage and hurt. But he was weak for his witcher trying so hard to ask nicely. Maybe there was hope for the emotionally stunted fool yet.</p><p>They’d light the candles and talk more, maybe get some food at the tavern, and of course reunite with the incomparable Roach. There were decisions to make about where to go next but for the moment, all Jaskier needed was to stay wrapped in the circle of Geralt’s arms. He dipped his head to feel his witcher’s heart beating slow and steady.</p><p> </p><p>Geralt’s name was back in his heart, on his lips, where it belonged. His songs would follow.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading, I treasure your kudos and comments! ♡</p><p>A sequel, you say? With a sweet reunion? It's more likely than you think...</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Poor bard.<br/>Comments and kudos always welcome.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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